In Abyssus
by elenwyn
Summary: Peter Petrelli has little to live for in 2010...but when the President announces plans to open containment camps to hold specials, and a certain cheerleader is imprisoned, his life will be turned upside down once more. In-progress. Paire. Summary inside.
1. Last Man Standing

**A.N: **Ok, D-day is finally here, and I'm nervous. This is the prologue for my first ever Heroes multi-chap fic, In Abyssus, which I've been working on for the majority of this summer. It's not finished yet, but I hope it will be before September, so I can just post the chapters for you. A big thank you goes to alaricnomad, who's my beta, and who is doing a fabulous job )

**Warnings/Disclaimer: **This fic will contain (eventually) **canon** Paire, so that means incest. If you don't like that sort of thing, please don't read. Spoilers up to the end of Season 2, **and possibly spoilers/speculation for Season 3** later on in the story. You have been warned. I don't own Heroes, that all belongs to Tim Kring and NBC.

**Summary: **_Peter Petrelli has little to live for in 2010, what with his brother bent on ridding the world of those with powers, the title of the Most Wanted Man in America on his head, and the killing of thousands of people on his hands. But when the President announces plans to open containment camps to hold such people, and a certain cheerleader is imprisoned, his life will be turned upside down once more._

So, here we go! Oh yeah, if you go onto my author page and click on my LiveJournal link, on the bottom of the post entitled: "In Abyssus (1/?) A Paire fan-fic" is a download link to the song I wrote the chapter to. I originally planned to make a soundtrack, but I thought that the music lends a lot to the emotion in the chapters, so each one will have a specific song relating to the events happening/characters involved. : )

--

**_Prologue: Last Man Standing_**

**_--_**

The fall from the window hurt less than she had expected, considering she had just slammed into the pavement from at least thirty feet. Knowing time was against her, Claire got up quicker than she should have, having to stop seconds later to pop her leg back into place with a sickening sound.

She paused a moment more to glance up at the two faces still gazing desperately after her, a resolute expression on her usually serene face.

_I'm not a Petrelli, not if Petrellis' behave like this._

With that, she raced off down the road, uncertain exactly where she was headed, but knowing that whatever way she took, she had to reach Peter.

She had to save him as he had saved her. It's what they did, it's how they rolled.

--

Peter had always wanted to be someone, always felt that within his life, he was meant to achieve…_something_. He was never quite sure what it was and, over time, as he realised Nathan was the brother to accomplish everything Peter couldn't, he started to believe it was foolish desperation on his part.

And now here he was, trying to save the world, when at the same time _he_ was the one putting it in danger. How he wished his big brother was here now to make it all right.

The hospice nurse sank to his knees, the powerful force of energy coursing through him almost becoming too much to bear, hands pulsing with nuclear energy. Sylar lay still across from him, the corpse of the murderer sealing Peter's fate with one last wave of his hand before collapsing, sending Peter's only saviour, Hiro, hurtling into the air.

Unless…

Growing weak, Peter cast his eyes forwards, heart leaping when he registered Claire's small form neared. As she came closer, he noticed her confident stride, but at the same time heard all the thoughts buzzing around her head.

_I don't want to do this. I can't do this. I've got to save him, but not like this, there's got to be another way – another way. There's got to be! I can't lose him, I can't, I can't –_

He stood up, using the last of his energy to get to his feet and look her in the eye, to make sure she did her job, "Do it." He held his arms wide so she could get a better shot, bracing himself.

She didn't reply, or do anything, only stared at him with a conflicted expression, fumbling with the gun in her hand.

"Do it!" He repeated urgently, overcome with the power that was rushing through him, "You're the only one, Claire."

She was crying now, hands shaking, and Peter wanted nothing more than to comfort her, to tell her it would be alright, except he didn't know if it _would_ be. He wasn't sure he could survive a bullet to the head, just like he wasn't sure he would survive if he exploded.

But he didn't want to leave her like this; he didn't want to leave her at all. He watched as she shook her head, tears still streaming down her face, "Tell me there's another way, please."

The broken emotion in her voice made Peter's heart wrench, but he couldn't lie to her, not now, not after all they'd been through, "Shoot me," he replied, his eyes boring into hers, "There is no other way."

Another pause and Peter knew time was growing short. He could feel the power building up inside of him, making it difficult to stand, talk, to breathe even. Hot fire coursed through his veins, and he knew it wasn't going to be long before –

"_Please_," He pleaded through gritted teeth, even as he saw Claire shaking her head, dropping the gun to the floor, "You have to."

"I can't," She was closer to him now, and the radiation around his body was getting stronger, beginning to singe his skin. If Claire wasn't careful, hers would too.

"Don –" He flinched as she hesitantly linked her fingers with his, taking a sharp intake of breath as the radiation began to burn through her skin.

"It's okay," she said, trying to smile through her tears and the pain, "This is how we roll. It's you and me."

Looking into her eyes, glittering with tears as she stared back at him, Peter felt a rush of emotion flood through him. Images flashed through his mind of the night at Homecoming, where he'd bumped into Claire and that sad little smile of hers for the first time.

He reached up and wiped her tears away, burns forming on her cheeks and then healing again instantly as he did so. Claire was crying openly, clinging onto him, not caring that her body was beginning to struggle to keep up with the constant radiation.

"I'm here," She mumbled, finding it hard to keep her eyes from shutting in pain.

From the corner of his eye, Peter could see Noah Bennet herding away the rest of the people that had congregated around Kirby Plaza away, talking fast on his cell phone while he helped the men with injuries walk. He sighed, the shuddering movement reverberating around his body and causing searing pain to shoot through his spine; even breathing hurt at that moment.

He knew there wouldn't be enough time to evacuate the city; Linderman hadn't put any plans in place. The statistic 0.07 whirred around his head as if it were on repeat. All he could see were the faces of the ones he loved and scared about, burnt and scarred, screaming for help.

The whole city a mass of flame because of _his _hand, because of what _he _was capable of. He had never wanted this; all he wanted was to be a hero, to change the world, to do _something_.

If he survived this, a fact he doubted very much, he would find a way to atone for this catastrophe. If he killed Claire in the process, he'd make damn sure he found a way to die.

_You're totally my hero. No matter what happens, you're still my hero, Peter._

Those thoughts and a pair of dazzling green eyes were the last thing he registered as the sky set alight and the whole world burst into flames.

--

Four years into the future, Peter woke up with a jolt, heart beating a thousand miles a minute. The same dream, every night, for four years. If that wasn't punishment, Peter didn't want to know what was.

But of course, there was an even worse price. The memory of her sad little smile and the curl of her hair still haunted him, while the betrayal of his brother stung like a knife in the gut every time his face was in the paper, or on the news.

The violence and trouble of the day he could deal with, a world full of new laws and his scarred face plastered on reward posters. It was the nightmares he couldn't stand.

Nightmares that were real, that were a living memory of what he'd done wrong that night, what he failed to achieve.

He moved from the bed to the bathroom, both dingy and off-white, the plaster peeling off the walls, to glance in the mirror, his distorted reflection staring back at him without pity.

He'd failed to be Claire's hero that night, but what he wouldn't give to have a second chance.


	2. Feel Alive

**A/N: **So here is Chapter 2! (Or should I say Chapter 1, as the last chapter was a prolouge?) Hmm, anyway, here's the next installement. This one's setting things up a little more so I can get the action going in a few chapters. Thanks again to alaricnomad for betaing! :D

Also, if you go to my livejournal I've included the download links for the music for this chapter, and Peter's 'theme tune' so to speak. :)

Enjoy!

**Warnings/Disclaimer: **This fic will contain (eventually) **canon** Paire, so that means incest. If you don't like that sort of thing, please don't read. Spoilers up to the end of Season 2, **and possibly spoilers/speculation for Season 3** later on in the story. You have been warned. I don't own Heroes, that all belongs to Tim Kring and NBC.

**Summary: **_Peter Petrelli has little to live for in 2010, what with his brother bent on ridding the world of those with powers, the title of the Most Wanted Man in America on his head, and the killing of thousands of people on his hands. But when the President announces plans to open containment camps to hold such people, and a certain cheerleader is imprisoned, his life will be turned upside down once more._

--

"Ok then! So that's two burgers with fries and a side order of salad, right? Comin' right up!" Sandra McBride gave a cheery smile to her customers as she finished jotting down their order.

She turned on her heel and moved towards the counter, smile fading as she did so. She went over to the hatch and rung the bell, "Order's up!" She shouted into the kitchen.

Andy appeared through the window, stealing a quick kiss as he took the slip of paper from her. The girl smiled.

"Hey," She breathed softly.

"Hi to you too," He answered back, eyes gleaming with warmth, "You ok?"

"Yeah," Sandra nodded, just as Lynette, the owner, switched on the TV. The voice of the President loomed over them, his speech for the anniversary of the bombing already underway.

The brunette quietened and turned to look at the screen, studying it carefully.

"_We mark this day with great sorrow, but also with hope. The Linderman Act has helped improve standards of living nationwide, and the rebuilding of our once proud city of New York is half-way to being restored to her former glory. People of America, times may be hard but, together, we can pick up the pieces of our fallen country and build them up to the sky. All we need is faith."_

Sandra had become so absorbed with the President's speech that she hadn't registered Lynette trying to get her attention.

Andy's hand on her shoulder snapped her out of her reverie with a jolt, "Sorry, Lyn, what were you sayin'?"

"You sure you're ok, honey?" Her boss asked, both her and Andy exchanging concerned glances, "These past couple o' days you've been a little…off."

The brunette shrugged, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, "Guess I'm just tired."

The older woman nodded sympathetically, "I wouldn't mind if you took a few days off, ya know. You work so hard, Sandy."

The girl shook her head, "It's ok. I'm fine."

Her boss sighed, letting the subject drop and walking towards her section of the diner. From inside the kitchen, Andy still stared at her, worriedly, "Your do seem to act strange when you see the Big Man on the screen, sweet."

Sandra scoffed, looking down at the floor, "Nonsense, Andy. Stop frettin'. I'm fine." She looked back up at him, a smile gracing her features, "Now get that order done, y'hear?"

"Yes, M'am," He answered jokingly, disappearing once more.

On the television screen, scenes of a desolate New York City illuminated around the diner, and Sandra averted her eyes, picking up her order pad once more and moving to serve a customer that had just entered her section.

"Hi! Welcome to the Burnt Toast Diner. What can I get'cha?"

Matt Parkman looked up from his menu, grinning, "What's good?"

_It's alright, Claire Bennet. I've just come for you._

--

Peter Petrelli took his resident seat at the back of the strip joint, downing the liquor in his hand in one gulp. He grimaced as the liquid burned his throat, looking around for his late comrade.

Hiro came into view seconds later, disgusted with Peter's choice of venue, "Classy. Extremely classy."

"You'll get used to it," The man answered, signalling the scantily clad waitress for another drink, "This better be important, Hiro."

The oriental man blinked slowly, and Peter still marvelled how much four years hand changed him. Gone was the geeky, comic-book loving character and here stood instead an older man, a warrior, wizened less by age and more by experience.

Peter supposed he'd had a hand in that transformation four years ago, when it all went so horribly wrong. The scar on his face stung ominously, whether physically or from part of his subconscious, he didn't know, and the man's eyes darkened.

"There's a prison in Utah, not too far from here," Hiro began, politely declining the drink offered to him by the waitress, watching as his companion took the refused drink for himself, "Last month, a couple of special cases were brought there."

"And by special, you mean they're like us," Peter finished grimly, setting down his shot glass.

"Yes. Sparrow's located them and thought they could be useful for our cause."

"Cause? Is that what we're calling it nowadays?" The man chuckled bitterly, "I thought it was called survival."

His friend frowned, "You haven't heard the news then."

"What ne –" Peter began, but an announcement from the television at the bar stopped him from speaking.

"_Ladies and gentlemen of America: The President of the United States."_

Peter felt his stomach churn as he looked into the hollow eyes and cold grin of the man now appearing on screen. _Nathan Petrelli._

"_My fellow Americans, I am speaking to you at a time where terror is great throughout the world but, also, at a time of change. Since the Linderman Act was passed last year, we have been able to help identify those among us who are... 'special' and help them._

Both men looked at each other warily. 'Help'wasn't the word they would have used at all.

"_Now, I am pleased to announce the opening of a new, state of the art facility, created to house and help these people. Our researchers and scientists have been toiling endlessly, and they have come up with a cure for this, for use of a better word, 'disease' and we hope that this centre will encourage those suffering from it to come forward and help return their lives to normalcy. The first of these centres will opening in Boston next month, with a trial period taking place using a few, select individuals. We hope to have one of these facilities in every city. We can cure our nation, ladies and gentlemen, I'm confident of that. This is only the beginning."_

Another shark-like smile, and Nathan's face disappeared, the speech still resounding loudly through Peter's ears.

"They'll start with the prisons," Hiro said softly, "Get those that are damaging to society and test them. Then they'll move onto civilians, run tests, send them away. They'll dispose of the ones that aren't useful or who can't keep up with the pace."

"It's genocide," The man was horrified, had it really come to this? He thought back to Hiro's earlier proposition, "So how do you propose we get to this prison, then?"

--

She felt trapped, her head was foggy. The air around her seemed to be thick, oppressing, forcing her into the dark.

"Wh…where am I?"

She struggled to open her eyes, figures blurring and fading incoherently.

A presence loomed over her. At first, she thought it was her father, and her mind scrambled for full consciousness.

Her hopes were dashed when a pair of piercing, blue eyes met hers, "Hello, Claire. I'm Mr. Linderman. Welcome to Camp Zero."


	3. Broken Remnants

**A.N: **Here's the next chapter! Slightly earlier than usual 'cause I'm away this weekend. Thanks again go to alaricnomad for betaing! :D

**Spoilers/Disclaimer: **I don't own Heroes. Also, this chapter has **spoilers for Season 3_, _**however slight, about a certain new character, so you've been warned.

Enjoy!

--

The White House was buzzing with excitement and activity. As soon as Nathan Petrelli finished his live broadcast, the entire Oval Office burst into cheers, causing the President to give out his signature, iconic grin. Press reporters were dying to ask questions, admitted into the office to witness the speech, but as soon as he stepped off the podium, bodyguards surrounded him, making it impossible for the press to get any closer.

"Mr. President, how long do think it will take before these centres are fully functional?"

"Mr. President, will you be enforcing laws so that all special humans take part in this programme?"

"Mr. President, is it true that you possess an ability yourself?"

A hush fell over the crowd and the President's smile faltered, only slightly, "Wild stories have always been concocted about world leaders. I think it's safe to assume that this is another one that is just that; a story. Thank you, ladies and gentleman. Goodbye."

With that, he left the room completely, his face contorting into a scowl as soon as his back was to the reporters, "Who let that journalist in? Why were the questions not screened? God damn it, it'll be all over the papers tomorrow."

An aide nervously came up alongside him, his young face etched with worry, as if he were afraid the President might bite his head off, "Sir? Professor Suresh would like to speak with you."

"Tell him to meet me outside, away from all these scavengers."

Five minutes later, Nathan was seated comfortably at his outside patio, adjusting his jacket as Mohinder Suresh walked towards him, a briefcase in his hand.

"I've just received this from Homeland Security, Sir. I haven't had a chance to look at them yet."

"Good," he smiled, leaning forwards in his chair as the Professor took a seat, "Then I'll look at them."

With a flourish, the Indian man opened the briefcase, handing a folder to the President. He opened it, studying the paper inside closely, before placing it on the table.

"Well done, Professor, with your extensive research, it seems we've located a good sized group of individuals to start with."

Mohinder seemed a little edgy, fidgeting in his seat, "The List was meant to be used for private research only. I don't like the thought of those goons in Homeland Security getting hold of it…"

"You have a daughter, don't you?" Nathan asked, fiddling with a button on his jacket.

"Yes…but I don't see what Molly has –"

"She's a rather _special_ little girl, isn't she, Professor?" The other man continued, a certain gleam in his eye that began to make Mohinder very uneasy.

"Y–yes," he confirmed warily.

"I assume she's on that list of yours then, am I correct?"

The colour faded from Mohinder's cheeks, "You wouldn't."

"Of course I wouldn't!" Nathan replied, laughing, returning once more to his relaxed persona, "I was merely commenting. It would be a shame if Homeland Security go a hold of her name...but if you keep doing your job properly, that won't happen. So you've got nothing to worry about, have you? Now, if you excuse me, Professor, I have other people to meet."

Nathan gestured for Mohinder to leave, smiling, and the other man got up, still shaken. A growing pit of worry was settling in his stomach, and he had a feeling it would keep gnawing away at him for some time.

On the way out, he was shocked to find Daniel Linderman passing through the same door. Linderman was rarely seen at the White House these days, but most people on the inside of the 'special' operation knew he was the one really pulling the strings of this Government.

Daniel gave the Professor a smile as he passed, before continuing to where Nathan sat, studying the file once more.

As he sat down, the sentence he uttered meant things were really starting to happen.

"We have her."

--

The man with the horn-rimmed glasses was glancing over his menu when he felt a presence approach him. Looking up, he was ready to give a bright smile, but what he saw disturbed him.

The waitress standing in front of him was not Sandra, it was Lynette.

"What can I get ya, darlin'?" She asked, clearly not registering the cloud of worry that passed over the man's face.

"The other girl, Sandra, where is she?" He asked cautiously, trying to keep the conversation light. If Sandra were any other girl, he would think she had simply taken a sick day.

But Claire Bennet didn't get sick days. She didn't get sick full stop.

The older woman sighed, her shoulders slumping at the mention of her colleague, "Beats me if I know. One day she was fine, the next she just took off. No note or nothin', just vanished! Let her boyfriend in a right mess, I'm tellin' you, and we've had t'work double-shifts to cover. Anyway, what'd you –?"

The question was left hanging in thin air; Noah Bennet was already out the door. He had a few phone calls to make.

--

"Remind me why you dragged me here again?"

The Oriental man cast a sideways glance at the red-head that had just spoken, before exchanging another look with his scarred companion, "Because you can help us, Sparrow. Your ability is very useful."

"But ol' Emo-Boy here's already got it. You don't need _me_. Jesus Christ, why place a prison behind a ruddy mountain?"

Peter let his mouth slip into a rare half-smile, "To cause you trouble, Ginger. I guess someone needs to exercise more."

Sparrow glared up at him, pausing for a moment with her hands on her knees to catch her breath, "Don't call me _Ginger_."

Spurts of fire hissed from the tips of her hair, raining down in tiny sparks, and Peter let out a bark of laughter, "Think you can take me on?"

"Children, children," Hiro muttered, "Play nice."

Peering through the branches, he could just about make out the searchlights stretching their reach towards the edge of the mountain and the glow of torches from around the prison walls, held by guards.

"It's heavily protected," he commented, turning back round to see his two cohorts had calmed down a little, though Sparrow's hair was a brighter shade of red than usual, "We'll need invisibility, Peter."

His friend nodded, motioning them both to cling onto him. Once they had, he concentrated, feeling Claude's power seep through him like a second skin, before launching high into the air, flying them down the descent of the mountain and coming to rest just out of view of the search lights.

Sparrow groaned, holding her head to rid herself of nausea, "Show-off. We could've just _walked_ down, you know."

"It was quicker this way, and I didn't think you'd be able to cope with the descent. I was saving your legs, really."

The woman hit him for that one, and Hiro could see they were getting distracted, a product of neither of them wanting to be there.

"You two," he said in an authoritive tone, something he didn't often use on Peter, "We have to keep our focus. We'll have about ten minutes once the guards are out to get them all out of there."

"Sorry, Sensei," Sparrow immediately intoned, as Peter rolled his eyes when his friend had turned his back.

"Why so serious?" He muttered, staring up at the stone, grey building. Despite his jokes, a quiet bubble of anger was creeping up inside of him. Who was anyone to decide that people should be deemed as criminals and locked away simple because they were different from others? Then again, this was his brother running the country, so Peter wasn't really surprised.

"Welcome to Moab Federal Penitentiary, Utah," Sparrow read off the sign that loomed into appearance next to the entrance, flanked by two watch towers and laced with barbed wire, "Oh, Em Gee, doesn't this place feel _so_ inviting?"

But Peter's joking mood had ended; he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible, "Let's go."

Without so much as a second glance to see if his comrades followed him, the vigilante moved slowly, catching the patrol-men off guard as he materialised in front of them, breaking their guns in half with his mind before they had a chance to use them. They immediately scrambled backwards, fear in their eyes, and the man let them run. The alarms had already been set off anyway; his mere presence at the gate had done that, as he wrenched the massive metal doors to the prison open with a flick of his hands.

"He doesn't do things by halves, does he?" Sparrow mentioned to Hiro, holding onto his arm as the Japanese man stopped time, alarms and guards freezing suddenly.

"Try to be a bit less conspicuous," Hiro berated his friend as they entered the building, "Unless you want HS to actually catch us this time."

Peter simply grunted in reply, studying the layout of the building, "You can't stop time here, too many people to get out."

"That's why we only have ten minutes," the other man answered and, with a second's concentration, time was flowing around them again.

With a single gesture from Peter, every cell door swung open, leaving bemused looks on the occupants' faces as they wandered out to get a look at their liberators.

"Follow that man to the exit," he commanded, gesturing towards Hiro, "We're getting you out of here."

It was then he noticed another cell, fortified by vast layers of metal. '_Who are they keeping in there?'_ he wondered, just as a loud crash resounded outside the building.

"We've got company," Peter yelled, "Sparrow; help Hiro get them out of here, hold the guards off till I get back."

The woman, who was helping herd people in the right direction, nodded, just as another explosion ricocheted outside, "They've bought the SWAT team; it's HS special division!"

'_Special in more ways than one'_, the man thought grimly.

"Hold them off," he repeated, before speeding in the opposite direction.

The vault seemed impenetrable, and Peter knew telekinesis would take too long. With a brief flash inside his mind of a night long passed, he pushed his hand into the metal, watching as it sunk through before stepping inside himself.

Within the cell walls was a woman, clearly terrified from the expression on her face. "Who are you?" She questioned, looking up at him with wide eyes.

For one second, Peter was taken back to another night and a different pair of wide eyes and blonde hair. That image was gone in a flash, and he held out his hand roughly, answering, "The person that's getting you out of here, c'mon."

The blonde took his hand a followed him wordlessly, keeping up with his pace with ease.

Once outside, they were greeted with a small-scale battlefield.

Sparrow was doing her very worst, forming a fiery circle around herself and the prisoners as the one of the special agents tried to break through, a literal whirlwind of dust on the ground. Hiro was coping as best he could with his sword, showing his samurai skill as he kept another agent at bay, his lightning reflex making it difficult for the goateed man to strike him.

Peter could only see two agents, but he could tell they were strong, perhaps the strongest on the team, "Guess they knew it was us and wanted to send a welcoming gift," he muttered, before turning to the woman next to him, "Fought before?"

She shook her head, but managed a small smile. "No time like the present, right?"

Peter almost grinned at her enthusiasm, before running to help out his sword-wielding companion.

A sudden blur flashed before him, and the dark-haired man groaned inwardly, matching the figure's pace as he tried to outrun her. A laugh appeared from within the haze, and Daphne stopped for a moment, "Long time no see, Pete."

"A pleasure as always, Daphne," Peter replied, before swinging a punch. Instinctively, the small blonde dodged out of the way, before landing a swift kick of her own in his stomach.

"Gotta keep up better than that!" she chirruped as Peter glared, blocking the next two punches she sent his way but letting in the third, momentarily winded and falling to the floor.

The running blur that was Daphne laughed, halting for a moment, "Giving up already...aw, shame. I kinda like you."

"Can't say I return the sentiments," Peter smirked, watching as the blonde prisoner he'd rescued surprised Daphne with a high-kick to the back, the force so strong that it sent her skidding across the dirt-track floor.

The man was momentarily stunned by the display of power, as his new ally helped him up.

"It's what I do," she answered nonchalantly, and Peter instantly understood.

"That'll help when it comes to this then," he muttered as the man Hiro was fighting with broke through the Japanese man's defence, coming to his friend's aid and attacking him with flurries of fierce punches that even he couldn't block.

Hiro gave a short bow of thanks as he was helped up off the floor. The battle was ending; with most of the prisoners escaping as Sparrow had resorted to hand-to-hand combat, her fists balls of flames as she successfully sent the last agent flurrying away, the other two fleeing as well.

"We should have killed them," Hiro said dully, brushing dust off his long, black coat.

"No," Peter answered gruffly, "I want Nathan to know what's happened. I want it to make him squirm a little knowing we're still around."

Sparrow ran up to join the three of them, eyeing up the newest person in a pseudo-menacing manner, "We got some fresh meat then?"

"Cut it out, Sparrow," Peter answered, turning once again to the blonde, who's eyes were darting warily from Hiro, sword still in hand, to Sparrow, who was now chuckling to herself, "What's your name?"

"Niki," She answered softly, glancing around her to watch the last of the prisoners scramble up the mountain.

Peter noticed her gaze and sighed, "So much for 'useful', Hiro, they just got themselves the hell out of here."

"One's better than none," his friend answered, motioning for them to begin the trek back up the mountain before they were caught in the open.

Sparrow groaned and opened her mouth to complain, but a sharp look from the sword-master sent her quiet, accepting the climb silently.

As they walked, Peter and Niki exchanged pleasantries, only barely touching, however, on the subject of family.

Of course, the scarred man wasn't about to bring up his familial connections in a hurry, but he watched as Niki's face twisted at the very mention, "What happened to them?"

"My husband died in the explosion," she answered tonelessly, though her eyes were full of emotion, "And my son…my son was taken from me. The Company have him."

Guilt hit Peter like a knife in the heart. _The explosion_. It had torn this woman's family apart, and the compassionate nature that still lay inside of the battle-worn man was urging to help, to right the wrong's he'd caused, so he did.

"We'll get him back for you."

--

White stone, cold floors, tiny little speckles of black dotted inside the ceiling tiles. Claire didn't know where she was, or why she was here, but she knew that enough time in this..._place_ she'd been put in would be enough to send anybody crazy after time.

In saying that, she knew where she was, the ominously named _Camp Zero_, but exactly _where_ that was, she had no idea. The last thing she remembered was…

What _was_ the last thing she remembered? The President's speech on the television, Andy's kiss as he took the order-slip from her hand, the friendly grin of the man at the counter...

...And the presence of another man behind him, tall and dark with staring eyes. The Haitian.

Claire understood where she was now, she was in Company hands, in _Government_ hands, and she knew that no-one would ever be able to track her down.

Except, maybe...

_Peter, please. If you're out there...please._


	4. The Play You Are Staging

**A.N: **I know this isn't Saturday, but please forgive me. RL was crappy to me this week, but I've got an update for you now :) Thanks again go to alaricnomad for betaing! :D

**Spoilers/Disclaimer: **I don't own Heroes. Also, this chapter has **spoilers for Season 3_, _**however slight, so you've been warned.

Enjoy!

--

Mohinder Suresh looked again at the list of detainees from Camp Zero, his eyes scanning the file with interest. He took a sharp intake of breath as he registered one particular name on the document and made an immediate bee-line for the President's office.

"You should know better than to burst in unexpected, Suresh," came the President's voice from his desk in the far corner of the room, as Mohinder unceremoniously flung open the doors, "I could have visitors."

"Well, I don't see any," the Professor retorted, his brows furrowing with annoyance.

He waved around the list in his hand, "You've signed these papers, Sir, and yet I don't think you've realised – or you've only glanced at this – who exactly Homeland Security say they have."

Nathan Petrelli sighed and placed his pen on the wood of the desk, his hands curling together as he rested them underneath his chin. A bored expression graced his features, and he raised an eyebrow in feigned curiosity, "Who?"

"It's right here, _Sandra McBride_," Mohinder slid the document under the President's nose, pointing adamantly at a name about half-way down, "Otherwise known to Homeland Security – and to you yourself, Sir – as _Claire Bennet_."

Nathan glanced up at the Indian professor, before letting his eyes scan downwards, resting on the name itself, "You're quite right, Professor." He then crumpled the paper up and tossed it aside brusquely, leaving Mohinder to stare after him in shock.

"But, Sir–"

The President turned back to his ally with a calculating expression on his face, leaning forward in his chair, eyes never leaving the other man's, "Now, listen here, Mohinder. If you value your job, and the little agreement we made concerning your beloved adopted daughter being exempt from experimentation, you will never speak of this again. That _name_ is simply one on a list of hundreds of others, and holds_ no importance whatsoever_ – do I make myself clear?"

His posture remained defiant, but at the mention of Molly, Mohinder immediately backed down, knowing no amount of talking would do any good, "Of course, Sir."

Nathan grinned, the expression causing his features to sharpen as he relaxed back into his chair, "Good! Then I shall see you later, Professor."

Taking that as his cue to leave, the Indian man turned away, stopping just before the double doors to look back at the President, who had spun his chair around and now faced the window.

"The bond of fatherhood," Mohinder began, deciding to make one last outspoken comment on the matter, "Is such that we feel the overwhelming need to protect our young from all that crosses them, no matter what the cost. I cannot imagine, Sir, that you hold no such emotion for your children; I have seen you with your sons."

Nathan began to turn in his chair, cold eyes boring into him, daring him to continue his thought, "Professor?" He asked, warningly.

"_Camp Zero _is specially designed to test the limits of humans attributed with powers, test them to the point of annihilation. If you let this slip through, Nathan, they will push her to her limits, to points where she will not be able to recover. In short; they will _destroy_ her. Are you willing to have the blood of your daughter on your hands?"

His words had hit a sore point as, half-way through his speech, the President had stood, fuming, "I had asked you amicably to dismiss this issue, Suresh, and now I ask you again. If you ever speak on this subject again, I will personally see to it that it is _your_ daughter facing the experimentation camps, do you understand?"

A grim smile found its way to Mohinder's face as he was forced to admit defeat, shaking his head in frustration before walking out the door, "Perfectly, Sir. Good afternoon."

The President of the United States glanced again at the screwed up piece of paper now resting on the red carpet. Sighing, he removed himself from his chair and picked it up. He studied it once more with a pensive look on his face, before tearing it up and throwing it in the bin.

The name _Sandra McBride_ remained intact, staring up at him mockingly. Frowning, Nathan reached into his liquor cabinet and poured himself a small glass of scotch, downing it in one go. He walked around the outside of his desk, glass in hand, and positioned himself so that the grounds of the White House were clearly visible from the French windows.

"Sandra McBride is no daughter of mine."

--

The doors of the cell swung open, revealing dazzling lights that burned through Claire's retinas, the white walls of her chamber becoming almost unbearable to look at.

Barely having time to register what was happening, she felt the strong grip of two pairs of hands enclose around her. Before she had time to struggle, the sharp point of a needle slipped into the middle of her back, and the world was dark once more.

--

She woke up on a metal table, more bright lights making her wince as she tried to move her head. Buckles were strapped across her waist and legs, making it difficult to move. Claire tried anyway, lifting her head as high as she could to take in her surroundings and attempting to release herself from her bonds.

But as soon as she did so, white hot bolts of lightning coursed through her body, and she let out an agonising scream as the volts shot through her – every nerve of her body on fire as the pain finally diminished, leaving her out of breath as her body repaired itself.

"I wouldn't be trying that again if I were you, Miss Bennet," Came a disembodied voice, and Claire was careful not to move her head too much as she tried to identify the source, her eyes coming to rest on a speaker in the corner of the room.

"You see," The voice continued, "If you struggle, it will only get worse. Bad for you, but interesting for us."

"Interesting?" The girl spat, anger seething inside of her. She tried her best to struggle against the ties holding her down, desperate to escape and find the person behind the voice, only to suffer again under the electric shock, which seemed to be more painful this time.

Claire closed her eyes as the pain finally stopped, whole body tingling. The sound of laughter filled her ears, and the once-blonde could have sworn she'd heard that voice somewhere before.

"Yes, interesting. You see, Claire, your ability is rare, very rare, and we want to take the time to study it. See what you can do, so to speak. It's very important for our research."

_Research?_ Claire could hardly believe her ears; she'd known from her father that this was happening, that the Company were still going strong, but something like this?

"You're sick," she muttered, her dark locks matted around her face, but she stayed still on the table.

On the other side of the glass, Mr Linderman smiled, talking more to himself than to the poor, frightened girl inside the room, "The world is sick…I am merely healing it."

He turned to two blank faced men in lab coats, and a particular wiry blonde who was grinning from ear to ear, "You have one hour, then she's back in holding. We don't want her too worn out on her first day now, do we?"

The girl, Elle, smirked, sparks jumping from one hand to the other in glee, "Of course not, Mr Linderman."

--

After what seemed like an eternity, Claire was unceremoniously thrown back into her cell, hair and clothes matted with a mixture of blood and her own tears. As she was lying on the floor, a heap of material – a white, baggy shirt and trousers – was tossed in next to her, and then the door was bolted shut, leaving the girl sobbing in a heap on the white flooring.

She squeezed her eyes tight shut as more tears flowed down, trying to shut out the memories of what they had just done to her in that room. Like some sort of lab rat, she'd been poked and prodded, stabbed, sliced at and mutilated in all sorts of ways; except this lab rat could put herself back together again every single time.

It was then, during her tears, that she heard a soft knock come from the right side of her cell, and she lifted her head to hear it again. When she did, Claire shuffled over to that side of the room and pressed her head against the wall, raising a hand and, after a few, tentative moments, knocking back.

Her heart leapt when she felt another knock against the wall, and was even more overjoyed when she could hear a voice, muffled, but a voice nonetheless.

"There's a small grate near to you, you can hear better through that."

Puzzled, intrigued, and a bit wary, Claire glanced around her surroundings to find the grate the voice was talking about. The past couple of years, these few days especially, she'd found it hard to place her trust in anything but, at this point, she was willing to take a leap of faith.

"Who…who are you?" She asked, feeling rather breathless.

"A prisoner, the same as you," A distinctly male voice answered, "In fact, we're more alike than you realise, Claire."

The girl's eyes widened, fear etching through her veins once more, "How'd you know my name?"

A soft laugh came from the other side of the wall, and Claire found it oddly comforting, "I've heard a lot about you since they bought you in – I never thought I'd meet another person that could heal as I can."

"You can…heal?" Claire was amazed; not since she'd met Peter had she ever thought of the possibility of another like her…and just the brief thought of her hero was enough to bring her elated mood down once more.

"I thought you'd sound a little more surprised than that!"

"No, it's just…it makes me think…of someone else. When I met him he could do what I could do, but now he's… he's gone."

She thought she could hear the man shift inside his own cell, "This day will be the hardest, believe me, and it won't get any easier. The only way you'll survive in here, Claire, is to block it out. Make them think you've succumbed to their regime. It's the only way."

The girl nodded morosely, toying with her matted locks and trying to forget another time when she'd been covered in blood, wanting to be saved, "What's your name?" She asked into thin air.

Claire could almost feel him smile as he answered, "Adam. Adam Monroe."

The pair talked long into the night. Adam, it seemed, had been in Company captivity for over thirty years, though he never mentioned the reason why. He'd broken out briefly, only to be caught again and immediately taken to this place once the Presidential election had been won a year ago.

Claire felt her stomach churn at the mention of the election, at the mention of her _father._ Through Adam, she'd discovered that he had been the one to pass these laws on her kind in the first place, had had a hand in deciding who would be the first to enter the experimentation camps...had _known_ she was going to be put under unimaginable torture, and had allowed it.

As she fell asleep that night, curled up in one corner of her monotone cell, a new sense of hatred burned through her body at what she was enduring, and who was responsible for it all.

And on the other side of the wall, Adam Monroe smiled in his sleep. Things were finally starting to look up around here.

--

Across the country, one man slept fitfully, images blurring in and out of his mind. Some were of the prison break, others were more faded, both melding together into one.

He was standing in a long corridor, long and white, with no idea how he'd got there. He knew he had to get to someone…someone important, but every time he took a step, the end of the corridor didn't seem any closer.

Suddenly, there was a rush of noise, and the passageway filled with people, all scrambling past him to escape. He heard gunshots, felt the terror surrounding those running away, and realised this was why he was there. He watched as the gun-bearer rounded the corner, taking in their clothes and facial expression.

_"I'm sorry, Peter, I always loved you."_

_Claire._

With a jolt, the man awoke, gunshots still ringing in his ears. He shook his head and turned over; trying to reassure himself that it was just a dream. But a small voice in the back of his head wouldn't let him rest, and he stayed awake for the rest of the night. He stared at the ceiling and thought back to times gone, when all he needed to feel alive was the golden curl of her hair or the sparkle of laughter in her green eyes.

--

The next day, Daniel Linderman decided to take a stroll to another part of the facility. Things were progressing well, just as things had been foreseen. Though it had taken a lot of time and pressure to make the President of the United States see things his way, it had been done, and everything was going exactly how Mr. Linderman liked it.

Smiling to himself, he rapped lightly on a door, painted white like the rest of the building. A dark haired woman opened it with a similar smile.

"How's my little genius this morning?" Daniel questioned, moving inside the room to take in the appearance of a young boy, who smiled back in a much more reserved manner.

This room was more spacious than other rooms in the building; an apartment rather than a cell. The boy sat at a table, a bowl of cereal in front of him.

"How's Mom?" The boy asked, "Is she alright, have they hurt her?"

Linderman laughed, seating himself on a chair opposite the boy, "She's just fine, Micah, but I need you to do something for me today. We can worry about your mother at another time."

Micah frowned, putting down his spoon, "You said I didn't have to do anything else…that the last time was enough."

The man licked his lips, looking down at the floor for a moment, "Now, Micah, you know your mother sent you here to make sure you were looked after…the terms she agreed to were that you would work for us."

"But you said I could see her," the boy retorted, "You said I could see her ages ago."

Daniel exchanged a look with the brunette on the other side of the room, "Soon, Micah, soon. You just do as you're told and everything will work out just fine for your mother. There's a good boy."

He stood up, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately before moving to leave.

"Aren't you going to tell him?" Candace asked as they were nearer to the door.

"That there's a nationwide man-hunt out for his mother? Nonsense," Linderman replied, blue eyes stone cold, "He wouldn't do anything we said then. Keep him occupied, fool him if needs be. The boy is essential to maintaining control – I can't trust the President to make polls go in his favour on his own."

"Sure, Mr. Linderman," the woman smiled, "I'll do whatever I can."


	5. 9 Crimes

**A.N: **Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it? Well, I'm back now. Pleased with this chapter as the ball's finally starting to roll :) Comments are loved!

**Warnings/Disclaimers: **Eventual Canon!Paire. Spoilers up to the end of S2 just to be safe. I don't own Heroes. Lyrics belong to Damien Rice.

--

_"Leave me out with the waste, this is not what I do._

_It's the wrong kind of place to be thinking of you._

_It's the wrong time for somebody new._

_It's a small crime, and I've got no excuse."_

--

Curled up in a ball a few weeks later, Claire willed tears to come. Over the past two months, she'd been treated nothing like the human being she was. In fact, Claire wasn't even sure that she felt human anymore.

Humans couldn't be cut open and still be alive to feel the pain, or feel the strange sensation that was their limbs growing back and re-attaching themselves to their body, cell by cell. The _people_ – she used that word in the loosest term – that were experimenting on her had no sense of compassion, no sense of privacy, and no mercy. Any sign of struggle or protest from her had resulted in harsher treatment, so much so that the young woman had given up doing so. That's when she realised that crying was no longer an option; her body simply had no tears left to do so.

A huge, empty feeling had begun to settle itself in Claire's heart and she sighed, turning herself onto her back to stare at the familiar, monotone ceiling. She couldn't go to sleep anymore; her dreams gave her no comfort. The only thing that gave her the semblance of a happy feeling was talking to the man in the cell next door, Adam. He gave her hope in an otherwise desolate existence, and she was grateful for that.

"Claire," she heard his voice call, slow and calm, "Are you alright?"

The girl remained silent; it was a question that didn't require an answer.

Adam shifted in his cell. He seemed on edge tonight, Claire had heard him pacing around just before their meagre dinner was bought to them. She wanted to ask if something was wrong, but words wouldn't come to her.

"Tomorrow morning we'll finally get to see each other face to face," he said finally, as though he'd given it a lot of thought before saying anything.

That caught Claire's attention. She inclined her head slightly towards the side of the wall he was on, brow furrowing, "How'd you know?"

Even to her ears her voice sounded small, engulfed by the padded walls and remembrances of keeping quiet incase it bought her more pain.

"One of the Company girls told me a few days ago, pretty thing, blonde –" Elle, Claire thought miserably, brilliant, "We're going to be used for something special, apparently. It could be our ticket out of here."

The last sentence was said with so much enthusiasm that Claire sighed deeply, "Forget it, Adam, we're not getting out of here."

"My God, Claire, are you hearing yourself?" Adam's voice rang out in annoyance, muffled by the walls, "You sound as though you've given up!"

"Maybe I have," She intoned, sighing and turning back around again, "We're never gonna get out of here."

"That's where you're wrong. I know for a fact that what we're being used for is exactly what we need to escape. All you need to do is trust me."

Something stirred inside Claire that bought the first prickle of tears to her eyes since her first night there. Trust? She knew about trust. Trust was something she'd given to her father to protect her, something she'd even had in her biological father before she'd realised the terrible truth.

Trust was something she gave freely to a hero who'd saved her life at a Homecoming game, only to have her hopes dashed when the days got longer and that same hero failed to appear. That's when Claire realised she could trust in nothing and no-one.

In the cell next door, Adam sighed into the silence, "Fine. But you'll see tomorrow. You _can_ trust me, Claire."

He said the words with such conviction that she wanted to believe him, so she relented, saying the word that would set everything in motion from then on.

"Alright."

The Brit, sitting with his back to one of the walls of the cell, grinned. He knew it wouldn't be long before everything fell into place, exactly how he wanted it to be.

--

Peter ran a hand through his hair, staring bleary-eyed at the computer screen in front of him. He, Sparrow and Hiro had put all their energies into searching for Niki's lost boy, but had come up with nothing. If the Company still had a hold on him, they weren't about to give up the whereabouts any time soon.

"This is hopeless," Hiro muttered, speaking his mind as he always did when Niki was out of the room, "We should give up, Peter."

Part of him agreed, but another part still felt terribly guilty, "I can't," he answered, "She's counting on me to get him back."

The Japanese man sent a look of pity in his direction, "You can't go around with this guilt on your shoulders for the rest of your life. You've got to –"

"Easy for you to say," Peter snapped back, anger rising, "You didn't cause an explosion that killed millions of people!"

Hiro let his friend calm down for a moment before speaking, "Living in the past isn't a good thing, Peter. Saving Micah won't bring Claire back."

"Damn it, Hiro!" Peter slammed his fist hard down onto the table, the force so strong it broke in two, "This has nothing to do with her! Claire's dead. I know that."

"I was just –"

"Well, don't." He retorted, seething. At that point, Niki entered the room, a shocked expression on her face when she noticed the broken table.

"Is everything alright?"

Hiro sent Peter a look, giving a small bow to the blonde before walking out of the room. The scarred man sighed, uncurling his fists and letting the anger disperse from his body, "Sorry, Niki." He said, offering her an apologetic smile.

The woman's face fell, sadness evident in her eyes, "You can't find him."

"No, we're close –"

"Don't lie to me, Peter," Niki's eyes brimmed with tears, taking a step towards him, "Micah's dead, isn't he?"

The man let out a sigh, looking down at the floor, "I don't know, Niki. But I promise I'll keep looking."

She let out a half smile, brushing her tears away hastily, "Why are you doing this for me, Peter?"

There was a gleam in her eyes that hadn't been there before, and Peter could've sworn she'd gotten closer to him within the past few seconds. He'd known her gratitude towards him had turned into some sort of crush, he'd sensed it through her emotions, but he didn't feel the same. He couldn't.

"Well, I…"

But when she was this close, Peter could pretend her blue eyes were green, that her straight hair was softer, that it curled around her face in gentle waves. When her mouth met his, he could close his eyes and picture someone else.

He was kissing Niki, but in his mind, it was Claire. Always Claire.

--

Mohinder felt slightly apprehensive as he walked into the lobby area of _Camp Zero_. It really did look like some sort of clinic, all starched white with nurses dotted about the place. It was open, friendly, nothing like the facility that was really inside.

"There you are, Professor. Mr Linderman's expecting you."

The scientist spun around to find a brunette in a mini-skirt waiting behind him, a smirk on her face. She inclined an arm and indicated him to follow her.

He was lead into the heart of the camp, the place hidden away from public view and the place where the real objective of the place lay. The woman he'd met in the lobby led him through long corridors of white, some with doors either side. Soon, they'd reached their destination, a spacious laboratory, also decked in white. Mohinder was sure he'd never be able to find his way back to the exit in the maze of rooms and corridors, and that thought worried him.

"Ah, Mohinder. Excellent. Now the real work can begin."

The professor smiled wryly, "Mr. Linderman, I'm only here on the President's instructions."

"Yes, yes," Daniel cut him off, "But I know all this will interest you personally, hmm? How many years has it been since you've gotten your hands dirty?"

The use of words made Mohinder raise an eyebrow, "I've never 'gotten my hands dirty', Sir. I don't intend to start now."

The old man's blue eyes twinkled merrily, "Of course. Now, I want you to meet a few _special_ friends of mine. Candace, bring them in."

An electronic door opened, and Mohinder's heart stopped as he saw who entered into the room.

Flanked by men in white, their wrists bound by handcuffs, were two people. One, a man with short, blond hair, didn't really hold the Indian man's attention. It was the girl beside him that caught his eye.

Claire Bennet.

She looked a shell of her former self. Mohinder hadn't known her that well, had only met her briefly during the Kirby Plaza incident, but he knew her through her father – both her fathers. His heart immediately went out to her when he saw how easily she let the men holding her push her around, her head hanging and dark hair falling across her face.

Linderman was grinning, clapping his hands together gleefully, "Professor, this is Adam Monroe and Claire Bennet. These two are exceedingly special. Immortality, if how long Adam's been alive goes to prove. You can take them away now."

Mohinder swallowed thickly as Claire's eyes caught his for the briefest of moments as she was led out. What he'd said to Nathan had been right; they were going to destroy her. Perhaps they already had.

"To business, Mohinder," Daniel smiled, clapping him on the shoulder, "Now, you know the new laws are coming into play early next year, don't you?"

"Only because of your instruction," the man replied, "A lot of things seem to happen because of that though, doesn't it?"

"We're not here to talk about me, Professor," Linderman warned, waving a hand towards a nearby chair so Mohinder would sit down, "These laws have been approved by the President and Congress, so they are perfectly legal."

The younger man sat down, the apprehensive feeling from earlier still lingering, "What about these laws?"

Daniel settled into a chair of his own, lacing his fingers together, "A few years ago, the original Company set up a prototype of a virus…the same virus, in fact, that your sister, Shanti, died from and the same your daughter, Molly, contracted. We have decided that it should be developed and used to…dispose of any of those with abilities that are, how shall I say it, not useful for our cause."

Mohinder's blood froze, "You want me to develop the Shanti virus to kill people?" He'd known these camps had not been the rehabilitation ones that the Government were advertising, that they were designed to keep captive, torture and kill people with abilities, but this was a step too far.

"Only those whose skills are not needed, my friend."

"I refuse," the man answered back, mind reeling in disgust, "If this virus gets out into the main public, it could destroy us all. It would cause a major epidemic and there would be no cure for it!"

"Ah," Daniel put up a finger, leaning in closer to the shocked and scared Indian Professor, "That's where we really need you, and the two I bought in, as a matter of fact. We have a form of virus that can already be used to our needs but, of course, we don't want it getting outside the facility, for the same reasons as you, Mohinder. That's why we need _you _to create an antidote for it. After all, it was your blood that cured Molly Walker, wasn't it?"

The Professor's eyes darted about the lab. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was madness, simply madness. How could he perform such a task? Be the reason that people here would die?

"What do…the two inmates have to do with anything?" He asked, rather breathless. If he had to kill Claire, well, he wouldn't do it.

Mr. Linderman chuckled, leaning back in his chair, "They are immortals, Professor, so I would assume they would be good test subjects for both the virus and the antidote."

"But it could kill them!"

The old man sighed, rising from his chair, "That's not my problem now, is it, Mohinder? Say…speaking of Molly, how is she? I'm sure she's missing you very much right now."

For the second time that day, the professor felt his heart stop but, this time, it sank as well. Molly would be in danger if he didn't go through with the task; he understood the meaning behind Linderman's words very well. He had no choice.

With resignation, Mohinder stood to face the man before him, holding out a hand for him to shake, "I'll start right away, Mr. Linderman."

The old man's grin, if possible, got even wider, shaking Mohinder's hand with vigour, "Excellent. I knew we could count on you. And, by the way, call me Daniel."


End file.
